


Waking Up

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, First Kiss, Forehead Kisses, Forehead Touching, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: Something was wrong.That was Hutch’s default gut reaction these days to anything being out of the ordinary, especially where his partner was concerned. He had to make a conscious effort not to jump to the worst possible conclusion, because practice made perfect and he’d had a hell of a lot of practice at the worst possible conclusion being the correct one.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



A pile-up had blocked the road and jammed the traffic thoroughly enough no amount of sirens would help Hutch get through. Dobey wouldn’t make a fuss about it, everything pointed to another dull weekday mostly spent at his desk, but it rubbed Hutch wrong not to be where he was expected.

He walked in forty minutes late and still managed to beat Starsky. They didn’t take the same streets to get to the precinct, so the wreck couldn’t be his excuse. And although Starsky wasn’t as much a stickler about punctuality as Hutch, it was unusual for him to be that late for work. 

Something was wrong. 

That was Hutch’s default gut reaction these days to anything being out of the ordinary, especially where his partner was concerned. He had to make a conscious effort not to jump to the worst possible conclusion, because practice made perfect and he’d had a hell of a lot of practice at the worst possible conclusion being the correct one. 

As he mentally talked himself down, he realized what was going on. The sinking feeling of something being wrong went away, replaced by a different kind of knot in his stomach.

 _He had a guest last night._

Starsky had been looking forward to his date with Jolene something-or-other for the past week. Monday was a weird night for a first date, but stewardesses didn’t get to pick which night they’d have a layover. Hutch had gone home yesterday with the relieved impression that the date might be off, though. Starsky’s stomach had been bothering him, and even though he didn’t know when she’d be in town again, he had talked about maybe having to cancel.

Must not have.

Hutch closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He would be calling as a pal to keep Starsky from oversleeping any more than he already had. That’s all Starsky would think about it, not that Hutch was trying to interrupt his time with his guest. Right?

He reached for the phone, but stopped with his hand resting on the receiver. Starsky was a grown man and didn’t need Hutch to be his wake-up service after a late night. Besides, he’d probably come strolling in any minute, singing off-key, wiggling his ass like a kitten about to pounce on a toy mouse, and Hutch would have to hear about his date soon enough without calling him and rushing the whole thing. 

Hutch stared at the phone. _What if it’s something else?_

No. Starsky had a late night and drank a little too much and didn’t get enough sleep. He’d give him another fifteen or twenty minutes before calling, and put off feeling foolish for worrying at least that much longer. Nothing was wrong. 

He’d repeated that last sentence to himself a lot lately. It was starting to wear him down, twitching every time Starsky didn’t pick up his phone, or ran late, or coughed, or didn’t answer him quickly enough when he asked him a question. He’d come so close to losing Starsky so many times now, Hutch had started to get downright paranoid about everything. He had to remind himself that everything was usually fine and to try not to focus on those rare moments when it wasn’t. He’d make himself crazy soon if he didn’t try. 

Hutch flipped through the squares of paper on his desk that had piled up while he sat in traffic. Detective Sterling’s physician-like scrawls reminded him that Martha Flanigan had called about the charges pending against her son. It actually read like _“changer perling agint sum_ ,” but years of reading Sterling’s shitty handwriting helped him decipher it. Dr. Ives’ office called about the filling he needed. They had an earlier opening and could squeeze him in first of next week. Good. And Starsky had called to say he was sick and wouldn’t be in unless “ _gou neel hin_.”

Hutch looked up from his desk and shook his head at how ridiculous that was. _I always need him._

He’d damn near said it out loud, so he clamped down on that line of thinking. 

Hutch scoffed and glanced around the room, waiting for the punchline. Someone was going to point at him and laugh, or Starsky would pop out from behind a desk ready to mock him if he took that note in stride as if Starsky might actually call and say he wasn’t coming to work. 

Nobody looked up. 

Hutch went to Dobey’s office. He opened the door as he knocked. “Starsky called in this morning?”

“He did. And good morning to you.” Dobey scowled and lifted his coffee mug. 

“Yeah, yeah. Morning. He’s really staying home sick?”

“I’m as surprised as you are. Stomachache he said.”

His stomach _had_ been bothering him, but it wasn’t unsurprising after he’d eaten two foot-long hotdogs from his favorite food cart loaded down with every imaginable condiment and things Hutch wasn’t sure were food let alone ingredients that belonged on a hot dog. That had to take a while to get through a person’s system. 

And that had been Starsky’s Saturday breakfast, with a full day of eating other equally stunning things for lunch, dinner and snacks.

“I’ll check on him, thanks,” Hutch said, then headed back to his desk. 

Maybe this time Starsky ate some _really_ bad food. The memory of the last clam chowder Hutch had ever eaten made his mouth sour. He’d been ruined on that or any kind of creamy canned soup for life probably. He still wondered what the hell came over him to eat it right out of the can. Must have been Starsky’s habits rubbing off on him, and look where it had landed him.

He dialed Starsky’s number. _Everything’s fine_ , he told himself to tamp down the rising unease. 

“Yeah?” Starsky mumbled, his voice tight. 

“What the hell do you mean leaving me with all this paperwork? Use up all your antacid on other double hot-dog days?”

Starsky didn’t laugh as much as exhale. “Goin’ to see the doc at two.”

Okay, now, wait a minute. A doctor appointment? “Aiming to get some time off with a doctor’s note?” His voice was as tight as Starsky’s. 

“S’killing me, Hutch.”

Hutch couldn’t breathe, then made himself remember they were talking about a stomachache and not someone or something literally trying to kill him. “Two o’clock? I’ll come over and drive you.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Starsky should have said _I don’t need you to come and baby me and drive me around like a chauffeur_. When he didn’t, Hutch tightened the grip on his phone. “They couldn’t get you in earlier? Did you tell them how much pain you’re in?”

“‘Course I did, but it didn’t hurt quite as bad then. They’ll call if something opens up.”

“Maybe you should just go to the hospital.”

There was a long silence, then Starsky said, “If it gets any worse, maybe.”

That response also wasn’t right. “I’m coming over.”

When Starsky didn’t protest, when he didn’t say anything, Hutch hung up and popped his head back into Dobey’s office. “Captain, call Starsky’s if you need me.”

Maybe another police captain would have protested, one who didn’t know them or what they’d been through together. Dobey just raised his eyebrows. “He’s pretty sick, huh?”

“Yeah, must have gotten a bad hot dog or something. Gonna drive him to the doctor.”

The whole drive to Starsky’s he had to keep clamping down on the memory of the last time he’d talked to Starsky on the phone when he was in bed, in pain, the horrible _Hutch, help_ that he’d barely gotten out. He thought of how he’d found him on the floor, unconscious, twisted in his bedsheets, and the ambulance ride where all he could do was wonder what the hell had happened to Starsky with no idea of the nightmare the next twenty-four hours were going to be.

_This isn’t then._

Hutch let himself in with his key and finally took a deep breath when he found Starsky, not on the floor in a drugged-out haze but on his side in bed, wrapped in the covers as opposed to tangled. But he was bundled in them like he was freezing, and it was over seventy degrees outside. His place was even stuffy and could use some open windows to let a breeze flow in. 

“Hey, Hutch,” he said weakly, then grimaced as if speaking had hurt. 

Hutch pressed the backs of his fingers against Starsky’s forehead. _Fuck_. 

“You’re burning up.”

“Nah, freezin’.”

“That’s how fevers work, dummy.” He rifled through the medicine cabinet and found a thermometer underneath a couple of old toothbrushes and some mercifully unused Q-Tips. A bottle of alcohol, unopened, lay on its side under the sink. After he cleaned the thermometer, he shook it down on the way back to the bedroom. 

“Ahhhh,” Hutch said, opening his mouth wide. 

“My own private nurse,” Starsky said, but then opened up and let Hutch put it under his tongue. While Hutch waited, he poured a glass of ice water and found some plastic bendy straws rolling around in a drawer. He blew through one and gave it a quick rinse under the tap. 

After enough time had passed, he said, “Okay, let’s see the damage.” 

He wasn’t practiced with thermometers, so it took him a few seconds of turning it before he got a clear reading. “Almost a hundred and two.” Bad, but not scary bad. Common infection, case of the flu or food-poisoning-that-can-be-treated bad, not slow-death-by-injected-poison bad. Probably.

“Maybe the doc’ll give you a shot of penicillin in the ass this afternoon and you’ll be right as rain again. Able to keep anything down?”

“Can’t eat.”

“Here, drink some water at least.” 

He held the cup out, and as Starsky tried to lean up to take a drink, his face crumpled. He groaned, then lowered himself again. 

“You can’t sit up?”

Starsky shook his head. “I can if I absolutely have to, but I don’t wanna.”

“Where’s it hurt exactly?” Hutch pulled the covers away and down and noticed the splotchy look of the white T-shirt Starsky wore. It was covered in damp patches, and patches that looked like they’d been damp and dried, like he’d been sweating in that shirt off and on for hours. He had sweatpants on beneath all the covers. 

“Was here,” Starsky said, hand over his belly button, “but now it’s all over in here. Kinda everywhere.” He indicated his lower stomach, mostly on his right. “Like getting stabbed when I move.” 

Hutch touched his lower stomach, barely pushing against it mostly to feel if there was a knot or if it was unusually hot. He didn’t know what the hell any of that would tell him, he was no doctor, but the urge to touch was instinctive. 

Starsky shouted in pain and pushed at Hutch’s hand. 

“Okay, let’s get you into the car.”

“My appointment’s—”

“At two, I know, but you’re going to the hospital.”

Getting Starsky into the car was an exercise in torture, more for Starsky than him, but it hurt Hutch too. How many times had he helped Starsky from place to place while he was in pain? He’d done the same for Hutch on several occasions, but those didn’t hit Hutch the same. He’d always rather be the one hurting. 

The whole walk from Starsky’s bedroom to his car, all Hutch could do was help Starsky stay on his feet and go slow in halting little steps, letting him stop and breathe through the pain when he needed to. 

“Maybe I should call an ambulance,” he suggested when they were halfway to the car.

Starsky hesitated, and for a minute Hutch thought he was going to agree. Then he shook his head, his curls brushing Hutch’s face because he held him so close. “Not much farther. You can get a chair when we’re there so I don’t have to walk anymore.”

“You don’t have to walk now.” Hutch reached down and put his arm under the back of Starsky’s knees to scoop him up, but Starsky hissed at the new movement and dug his fingers into Hutch’s side.

“Hutch, I would absolutely let you bridal carry me to the car in broad daylight if I thought you picking me up wouldn’t hurt too fuckin’ bad, but it will. Let’s just . . . go slow.”

Getting into the car was the worse part. Starsky groaned constantly until he was seated, mostly facing forward but rolled in Hutch’s direction, with his knees halfway drawn up. Sweat poured from him. 

When Hutch got in, Starsky wiped his hand across his wet forehead. “Think this means my fever’s breaking?”

“Don’t think so, bud.”

“Some optimist you are.”

At the hospital, Hutch went in and brought an orderly out with a wheelchair. Two was better than one, they could take his weight more evenly and make it less painful for him. A Tuesday morning left the emergency department less full than it would have been at night or on a weekend. Starsky was sweaty and ashen, and sometimes groaned softly, squinting his eyes and clenching his jaw muscles. He was wheeled into the back within only a few minutes, to Hutch’s relief.

One of the nurses, Sarah, remembered them from several weeks ago when they brought in an informant who’d been knocked around in an alley. Starsky had flirted his ass off with her for the better part of an hour, in fact, leaving Hutch to watch and occasionally smile tightly at the way she was eating it up. 

Hutch loved her at the moment, though, because she let him go with Starsky. “I’ll let the attending know you’re partners, but somebody else might run you out anyway.” 

When the doctor came in, he did run Hutch out, but he was nice about it and said he’d come get Hutch when they were finished. So Hutch expected ten or fifteen minutes, not the near hour it became. 

He would have spent the time chatting to the nice nurse Sarah, but a car accident had sent a few people with injuries via ambulance, and a few more people with various maladies sat in the waiting room. Now the ER looked more like the start of a rough Saturday night. 

He used a payphone and let Dobey know he’d brought Starsky to the hospital and to call him there if he needed anything. He paced until a few annoying looks from other people waiting prompted him to sit down, close his eyes, and just be still. 

More than one of his girlfriends had been into meditation. Hutch still found it difficult to do but the act of trying had always helped calm him down and make him feel more centered. He couldn’t really meditate in a busy ER waiting room with Starsky in so much pain on the other side of the white walls, but he could try to focus himself and stop worrying so much. 

Maybe it was gallstones, or just terrible gas. Lord knew the things he ate could probably generate that. He’d take some pills or get some shots, maybe have to stay overnight until he felt better at the most, and everything would be fine. 

“Detective?” The doctor who’d sent him back out here was standing in front of him. So many flashbacks of this same moment twisted together in Hutch’s mind, a doctor coming to tell him news that made his blood thicken in his veins. But this doctor was smiling, not frowning and grave. 

Hutch stood. Before he could say anything, the doctor said, “We’re going to get him into surgery as soon as possible. You can go talk to him now until we take him up.”

“Surgery?” 

“His appendix is inflamed and needs to come out. He said he had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon but you insisted on bringing him here. Good call.”

“His appendix.” Just an appendix. Something ordinary people who didn’t get shot at or poisoned or abducted sometimes had problems with. Normal. _Everything’s fine_. “So this is pretty routine, right, as far as surgeries go?”

“All surgeries come with risks, but yes, an appendectomy is a common procedure. We’re operating as soon as we can because his appendix is highly inflamed and at risk of rupture. We want to get it out before that can happen.”

Even little kids had their appendix out sometimes, didn’t they? Routine. Nothing to worry about. He hated Starsky having to go under the knife again, but this reason was at least an ordinary one that could happen to anybody, even him. 

“What causes somebody’s appendix to need to come out?” he asked the doctor as they walked to where Starsky waited. 

“It can be a variety of reasons, anything from a virus or an infection to dietary causes.”

“It’s all that crap he eats. You should have a talk with him about that.”

The doctor left him at Starsky’s bedside. Starsky’s eyes were closed and that ashen hue was gone. He had more color and his skin was dry. An IV ran into his arm, a colorless liquid dripping rapidly from the bag into his veins.

He was probably able to rest a little if they’d eased his pain, so Hutch hated to disturb him. But he also didn’t want him to go into surgery without talking to him first. 

“Hey,” Hutch said as he touched Starsky’s arm. 

Starsky opened his eyes and gave him the biggest, goofiest smile he’d seen on his face in a long time. “Huuuutch.”

“I see they’ve got you on the good stuff.” He pulled a chair next to the bed and tried not to compare it to the singing in his veins when he’d been drugged and felt no pain. Tried not to crave that again.

“They do, and I love every last one of ‘em. Feel like I could get up and dance.”

“You’re gonna be in here for a few days recovering from surgery. No dancing for a little while.”

Starsky’s smile faded as if he’d realized what he’d said, like there might be something wrong with it. “Eh, it doesn’t feel all that good anyway.”

It did. Hutch knew full well how good it could feel. But his throat got tight at the idea that Starsky would lie about it out of concern for him.

Starsky blinked slowly for a couple of minutes. “Doc told me I have appendixes.”

“Appendicitis.”

“What I said. You should go back to work before Dobey thinks we’re making all this up to spend the day loafing off or somethin’.” 

“I thought I’d wait until you were out of surgery. Figured you’d want to see my pretty face after you woke up.”

“That’s sweet,” Starsky slurred. “Your ugly mug’s the first one I see, might send me back to the ER.”

Hutch smiled at him fondly. “I’m really okay with staying.”

“It’s a common operation, just a tiny little thing like . . .” He wiggled his index finger in what Hutch guessed was supposed to imitate an appendix. “I’ll be out of it for a while anyway. You know how it is.”

He did know. But something inside him wanted to argue that he should stay anyway. Starsky must have seen it on his face. 

“You wouldn’t insist on sitting around while I got a tooth pulled, would ya?”

“Hardly the same.”

“Eh.” He waved a hand. “Not by much. I’m gonna be fine, Hutch.”

“I know you are. Especially since you’re going to start eating healthier after this.”

“Now wa—”

“I still think those hot dogs you ate Saturday had something to do with it. It’s bothered you since then.”

“I knew you were gonna say that so I asked the doc, and he laughed and said two hot dogs probably didn’t cause anything. My stomach hurt because of my appendix, not what I ate.” 

Hutch snorted. Of course he would have thought to ask, because he knew Hutch so well. “Fine. But it wouldn’t hurt you to eat better. Might have prevented this for a while longer, don’t you think? He did say dietary causes could be a factor.”

Starsky’s expression, smug and goofy, didn’t change. “Go back to work,” he said, his voice growly, “and stop lecturing me on what I eat. Go away, Blondie.”

“All right, all right. I’ll come back tonight when it’s over.” He put his hands up in defeat. “I’ll go call Dobey then head back to the office since you clearly don’t need me here.”

“I don’t, not if you’re gonna nitpick.” He held a hand up. “Hey, could you call my doc and cancel my appointment?”

“Sure.”

“And when you come tonight, bring me some clean clothes? I need clean underwear for a couple of days. I don’t want my ass hanging out when they make me walk around in these damn gowns. And clean clothes to go home in.”

“For you not needing me you’ve got a long list of stuff you need me for.”

Starsky’s half-grin was so silly and adorable, Hutch wanted to touch his face with both hands and get closer just to drink it in. Starsky wasn’t so high he wouldn’t remember something like that, though. 

“I always need you, Hutch. Just not for mother-henning.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stood and looked down at his partner, glad he wasn’t in pain anymore, and tried not to let Starsky’s words affect him too much. 

Starsky raised his eyebrows. “You might have to do some laundry for me, because I might be down to one pair of clean undies. Or just bring me a couple pairs of yours.” 

Hutch laughed, tried not to picture Starsky in his underwear, and put his hand on top of Starsky’s head to ruffle his hair. He couldn’t leave without touching him again. “I’ll figure something out. Don’t flirt with too many nurses.”

“All bets off if they flirt with me first.”

Hutch gave him a last glance at the door and a wave, then went to the bank of payphones to let Dobey know what was up. After he made sure the nurses’ station had his number at work, he headed back to the precinct.

* * *

He’d been joking about Starsky leaving him with all the paperwork, but unfortunately paperwork was what ate up the next few hours. He had to purposefully stop noticing Starsky’s empty chair to focus on his work, but the drudgery of filling out form after form did help distract him. Michelson asked about Starsky, and Hutch realized he’d expected a call before now to tell him Starsky was out of surgery and what room he would be in. Nurse Sarah had promised to let him know, and that was only if the people actively taking care of Starsky got busy and forgot. 

He called the hospital, and after getting transferred half a dozen times, a familiar voice said, “This is Dr. Edmunds.”

“Has David Starsky’s surgery been delayed? I thought it would be over by now.”

“Oh, hello Detective. We successfully removed his appendix before it ruptured. He’s in recovery.”

Goosebumps broke out on Hutch’s arms. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. He knew that tone of voice. “Nobody called me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”

God damn it, there it was. The other shoe, slamming onto the floor. 

“Worry me about what?”

“Some people come out of anesthesia more sluggishly than others. He appeared to be responding and conscious when the nurse removed the endotracheal tube, but he hasn’t been responsive since.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Hutch made a fist and dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand.

“We haven’t been able to wake him up. Right now we’re doing everything we can to figure out—”

“What do you mean you can’t wake him up?” Hutch heard what the doctor was saying, but it wasn’t good enough. There had to be a reason, didn’t there? A reason they could fix, wake him up, and everything would be fine afterward. 

“Detective Starsky is in a post-operative coma. We’re running tests to determine the cause and find appropriate treatment.”

“A coma,” Hutch said in disbelief. “Isn’t there a drug you can give him, or-or something?”

The only sound was the doctor’s steady breathing for a few seconds. Hutch knew he was being difficult, suggesting things he knew nothing about, but god damn it, what did they mean they couldn’t wake him up? It had been a simple surgery, not a hail of bullets or a hypodermic full of poison. This was a surgery doctors did every day. How could he _just not wake up_?

“Detective, chances are extremely high that we’ll be able to wake him up very soon or that he will wake up on his own. There’s nothing to be alarmed about, not yet.”

_Not yet._

“I’ll call you as soon as I have news, but right now I need to go and take care of your partner.”

“Doctor . . . I’m sorry. Go take care of him. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“It would be best if you waited. You won’t be able to see him right now, at least not until we’re done with the scheduled tests.”

Hutch stared at the paperwork he had yet to get through and focused on part of what the doctor had said, that chances were high that they’d be able to wake him up soon. When Dobey came through and asked if he’d heard anything about Starsky, Hutch said, “Surgery went fine.” Dobey clapped him on the shoulder and kept walking. 

He made it an hour before going to the hospital, and that was only through sheer force of will. The third person who asked him about Starsky was the catalyst. He could only say “he’s out of surgery” so many times before the omission felt like a terrible lie. 

He made sure they would inform the doctor that he was there in surgical waiting, even though he doubted they were going to let him in to see Starsky anytime soon. 

He’d flipped through a battered copy of Field & Stream several times by the time Dr. Edmunds came out to see him, looking a year older than he had looked that morning. He shook Hutch’s hand. 

“Detective. I’m afraid I don’t have any news to offer.”

“He’s still not awake?”

“No. And we haven’t found a reason for it yet.”

“How, Doc? How does someone not wake up? I mean, did he get too much anesthesia during the surgery and it takes time to wear off? I don’t—”

“I understand your confusion, but we have triple-checked everything Mr. Starsky was given before, during and after the surgery. There was no negligence involved here.”

Hutch hadn’t been trying to imply negligence as much as just figure out what the fuck was happening. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“His vital signs are stable, his appendix doesn’t appear to have caused infection in other areas of his body. We’re monitoring him closely and still running tests to see if he has an underlying condition he wasn’t aware of.”

“Can I see him?” At the doctor’s expression, Hutch said, “I know he’s not awake and it’s not likely to matter, but if I can, I’d like to.”

“We’ll be moving him soon. I’ll send someone to get you once he’s settled.”

“Thank you.”

He dropped back into the seat when the doctor walked away. He would get to see Starsky. Maybe he could wake him up? Seemed unlikely, not something to rest all his hopes on, but it was at least possible. 

He needed to call Dobey and break the news. Faced with that, he understood why the doctor hadn’t called him right away. “He’s just not waking up the way he should.” What a stupid thing to have to say. He’d wait a little while and maybe he wouldn’t have to tell Dobey at all. Starsky would wake up, probably demanding gross hot dogs while he flirted with nurses and told bad jokes, and there’d be no need to make any phone calls and be asked questions he couldn’t answer. 

Almost two hours passed before a nurse came to get Hutch. Which meant another two hours Starsky hadn’t woken up. Hutch had seen him on a ventilator, wires and tubes tangled around him like some kind of antiseptic jungle, and he braced himself for that. But Starsky lay on his back in the bed, covers pulled up to his chest. An IV tube ran from his left arm, and the top of his hospital gown was pulled down a little to make room for the pads stuck there to monitor his breathing and heartbeat. Mercifully, there was no breathing tube or oxygen or anything taped up or bandaged..

He looked like he was peacefully asleep. Hell, maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe by the time he woke up the pain from his surgery would have faded, and this was sparing him that. 

The dour expression on Dr. Edmunds' face where he stood on the other side of the bed, looking at a beeping machine, said no, this was not a good thing.

“Still nothing?”

“I have a consultation with a doctor in New York in about fifteen minutes. I’m hoping he can see something we’re missing.” He didn’t say anything else before he wrote some notes on his clipboard and left the room.

A chart was taped to the wall behind Starsky’s bed—a turning chart, letting the nurses know when he needed to be turned onto his side or onto his back. That stupid piece of paper made Hutch so angry he wanted to tear it off the wall. Starsky wasn’t going to be lying there long enough he was at risk of developing bedsores. The very idea was ridiculous. Probably before the day was over, or maybe tomorrow, he’d wake up and wonder what all the fuss was about. 

Hutch pulled one of the chairs close to the bed and sat, then put his hand on Starsky’s arm. “Stop being stupid, Starsk. Open your eyes. Joke’s over.”

He squeezed Starsky’s arm. “I don’t know how to break this to you, but somebody sideswiped the tomato. I think it should go to a junk heap, too expensive to fix. Got an opinion about that?”

He took two deep breaths and closed his eyes, tried to focus and center himself while he waited for Starsky’s arm to twitch beneath his hand, or for him to start shouting about his car. “If you don’t wake up soon, I’m gonna have them tow that ugly thing away. They’ll compact it into the size of a lunchbox.”

He opened his eyes, crushed that Starsky wasn’t angrily staring back at him. 

_God damn it._

Two nurses ran him out and pulled the curtain around on its little track for privacy when it was time to give Starsky meds and turn him. He’d been sitting there for over an hour just watching Starsky breathe, listening to the steady _beep-beep-beep_ of the monitor. 

He was pacing up and down the hall when Dr. Edmunds appeared. “We have a few more tests to run, and hopefully those will provide us with some answers,” he said before Hutch even asked. “Right now we’re operating on the theory that he’s sensitive to one of the drugs used during the surgery. His thyroid levels are a little low, and though it seems unlikely, those two things combined may be what’s delaying his consciousness. You should go home, Detective. If anything changes, I’ll make sure you’re notified.”

He started to say he couldn’t go home, but of course he could. He could go back to work, finish out his shift, go home, wait by the goddamn phone. 

“Doc, he’s . . . he’s not in any danger, right? This isn’t—he’s not dying.” He’d meant to ask, but it came out as a statement.

“We don’t have any reason to think he won’t wake up from this.”

So Hutch really had no cause to demand to be allowed to stay. He’d make sure they had his home number, and he would leave. “Can I go back in for just a minute first?”

“Of course.”

When the nurses were done, he went back in and took Starsky’s hand. He wasn’t burning up like he had been that morning. The skin was dry, not clammy. “Wake up, Starsk,” he hissed one more time, as if it would do any good. Then he rested his hand on Starsky’s curls before he leaned down and kissed his forehead. 

Two orderlies had come to wheel Starsky’s bed somewhere for another test, so Hutch gave them a quick nod and left. He impressed upon the nurses at the desk that they should try both his home and work number if anything changed. He drove, unsure where exactly he was going to go. If he went back to the precinct, he’d have to tell Dobey in person and then have to deal with everybody there finding out. And he felt like if too many people asked him questions, he might snap under the pressure. 

He ended up at Starsky’s. He gathered up the dirty clothes Starsky had told him needed washing, plus whatever else he could find that looked or smelled like it needed to meet some soap and water, then he threw the big bag in his car. He’d wash them at his place. It would give him something to focus on. He emptied Starsky’s trash, and a chocolate-coated piece of plastic sticking out of the top inspired him to really have a look through the cabinets, fridge and freezer. 

“Oh, babe, do you ever eat a vegetable when I’m not around?” he grumbled. A yellow package with one end open caught his eye. Mallomars. They’d be stale now left open like that. He threw them away. Then he tossed the Oreos, the multi-pack of candy bars Starsky kept in the crisper drawer. The potato chips and the pork rinds and the fucking hot dogs in his freezer. 

The more items he found and threw in the garbage, the angrier he got. Not at Starsky really, but at the food. By the end, he was slamming packages into the trash like he wanted the impact to do some damage. 

Maybe junk food had nothing to do with Starsky’s appendicitis, but it was as good a thing to blame as any right then. And if he hadn’t ended up with a sick appendix, he wouldn’t be in a hospital bed right now unable to wake up. It had only been half a dozen hours, but it felt like a week, and he realized it was because he was not only helpless, but there was no one to blame. 

Ordinarily he’d be out chasing suspects, either to nail them for hurting Starsky or in the hopes of saving him. Bellamy’s face flashed through his mind, so he threw an opened bag of cheese puffs as hard as he could, and when it didn’t make a sound loud or satisfying enough he kicked the can and sent it rolling, packages and papers spilling out and leaving a trail. 

He sat at Starsky’s kitchen table and pressed his fists against his forehead. After everything Starsky had been through, if it was something like this that took him down . . .

He couldn’t think that way. He’d do the laundry, put clean underwear and clean clothes into a bag to take back to the hospital, just as Starsky had asked him to. 

“Fuck.” He’d forgotten to cancel Starsky’s appointment at the doctor. He wondered if they charged a fee for missed appointments. He’d pay it, if he couldn’t talk them out of it. Seemed half their fault, since they couldn’t have gotten him an appointment sooner. 

Hutch knew that was unfair, but he didn’t care. 

After a few more minutes of breathing, he picked up the mess he’d made, tied up the garbage bag and threw it out into the can. All that junk food represented a lot of money. Hell, probably all of Starsky’s food budget some weeks, if he bothered to do anything as responsible as have an actual budget. 

He wouldn’t feel guilty about it. It was all that crap that caused this—he was going to stick to that—and so of course he wouldn’t want to eat that way after this little scare. Because that’s all it was going to be. A little scare, they’d shrug it off, and maybe he’d get Starsky to try eating things like trail mix and wheat germ. 

In fact, to make sure no guilt sat in he’d buy groceries and stock Starsky’s apartment with healthy food. Maybe wheat germ was pushing it, but trail mix could have a little chocolate in it, and everybody loved nuts and raisins, didn’t they? He could find things Starsky would eat. Maybe they wouldn’t be as healthy as what Hutch would choose in an ideal situation, but anything was better than chips and cookies and candy bars. 

Before he left, he called Starsky’s doctor and left a message. And he called Dobey. It felt better to call from Starsky’s place. Felt better to be there, surrounded by Starsky’s stuff, since he couldn’t be with him in person. 

Dobey told Hutch to keep him informed. He’d asked if there was anything he could do, and of course there wasn’t. And he’d told Hutch to take a couple of days off, but he didn’t want them off. They weren’t going to let him hang out in Starsky’s room twelve hours a day, so he had to keep himself from going insane somehow. 

Then he called Huggy. Huggy whistled low. “A coma?”

“I guess so. The doctor acts like he’s going to wake up, he just doesn’t know when. I’m taking him some clothes tomorrow, and maybe I’ll yell at him a little and try to startle him awake. Hell, Huggy, I don’t know, it’s just crazy that something like this can come out of nowhere.”

“What you need from me? Name it.”

Good old Hug. “I’m okay. It’s _him_ I’m worried about.”

“Call me if any of that changes. You know I’ve got your back, man.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

The offers of 'whatever they could do' from Dobey and Huggy hadn’t been a surprise. He knew both of them cared about him and Starsky, and they were good people. But for the first time all afternoon he found himself blinking against blurry vision, his eyes stinging. 

“Hey Hug, if you want to see him, I can leave word with the nurses so you can get in. Maybe we can both shout at him.”

“We’ll tell him somethin’ happened to his car.”

“Already tried that,” Hutch said with a laugh, wiping his eyes. 

* * *

If Nurse Williams hadn’t been a woman, Hutch would have cracked her right in the mouth. She had the bedside manner of a rhino and a smile not quite as pleasant. And he knew full well that a week from now, maybe two, he’d look back and know that she wasn’t half as bad as that. But she told him he couldn’t see Starsky, visitation was family only, and she seemed to have an attitude about it, like she took a great deal of pleasure in denying him the ability to see his partner. 

A nurse who recognized him from the day before told him to go on back when Nurse Ratched had her back turned. He had a paper sack rolled down at the top filled with clean clothes and a paperback Starsky had left open on his couch. No bookmark, so Hutch had torn off a corner from one of the envelopes on the table to mark the place. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like reading when he woke up, but it was there if he did. 

Starsky lay on his left side, pillows in front and behind to keep him in place. Everything looked the same, though the machine that monitored his heart rate had the volume turned down. Without that constant _beep-beep-beep_ it was a lot easier to imagine Starsky was sleeping instead of unconscious. 

“Brought your clean clothes. Thought about not doing it. You deserve to have your ass hanging out after putting us all through this, you know that?” He imagined the smile that should have been there. 

Huggy showed up about an hour after he did. He must not have had to deal with the cranky nurse, since Hutch hadn’t heard him cursing before he popped his head in the door. “How’s our boy? Still playin’ Sleeping Beauty?”

Hutch waved a hand in Starsky’s direction. 

Huggy approached the bed and touched Starsky’s arm. “Bullets, blades, bad guys of all stripes couldn’t get you, brother. This won’t get you either.”

That damn hot blinking again, and a lump in his throat. Bullets, blades, bad guys, brainwashed cult members, bacteria . . . he couldn’t think of a “b” word that would work for needles, something that almost got both of them at one point. 

Hutch shook his head to shake off those thoughts. “No, it won’t. Want some coffee?”

“Nah, I’m only stayin’ a minute, but I couldn’t not come and tell him to _wake up_!” He said the last louder, leaned over Starsky as if a good shout was all it took. Hutch understood the instinct. “You go get yourself some, use the restroom, get some food, whatever you need. I’ll wait here until you get back.”

“Thanks, Hug.” Hutch wasn’t going to stay all day. They probably wouldn’t let him if he tried, but he wasn’t ready to go just yet. 

He used the visitor toilet and got some coffee, food wouldn’t have sat right, and went back to Starsky’s room. Huggy stood. “I tried singing to him, hoping he’d have to drag himself out to tell me to shut up, but no dice.”

Hutch laughed, and when Huggy wrapped his arms around him, he fought to keep from crying. 

“He’s gonna wake up pretty soon and bitch at you for hanging out here, you know it?”

“Can’t wait.”

Hutch finished the coffee and knew he should head to the precinct, but the nurses hadn’t come in to turn Starsky at the right time. He was still on his side, and according to the chart, he should be on his back for the next couple of hours. He waited impatiently for about ten minutes, and decided to do it himself. 

He pulled the pillows away from Starsky and was gently rolling him onto his back when Dr. Edmunds came in, another doctor following close behind him saying something about an _allergic reaction usually presents as something-or-other_ , when Edmunds stopped. 

“I can call the nurse and have—”

“I’ve got it,” Hutch said. 

“You should really—”

“I know how to take care of my partner!” He hadn’t meant to snap, hadn’t meant to sound so on the edge of hysteria. The other doctor frowned, clearly pissed that Hutch might talk that way to someone of his status, but Edmunds simply held a hand up and said, “I wasn’t questioning that, Detective.”

“I’m sorry,” Hutch said, as he gently pulled Starsky to center him in the bed, then pulled the covers back up to his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . .”

“I understand. This is a stressful time.”

Stressful. He did manage not to laugh at that and instead said, “Running more tests?”

“Just about to. Are you going to be here somewhere or—”

“Work. Call me when . . . well, when you’re done?”

“I will.”

The other doctor gave Hutch a wide berth as he left the room. Hutch didn’t make eye contact with anyone he passed on the way out to his car.

* * *

As soon as Hutch got to work, Dobey called him into his office. 

“It’s all that poison he puts in his body,” Hutch shouted, still standing, waving his arm around. “He eats crap, and he eats way too much of it, doesn’t get enough vitamins or-or-or minerals or sleep.” He ranted on about Starsky’s diet and lifestyle choices a few more minutes before he paused to take a breath. 

Dobey raised one eyebrow. “You finished?”

Hutch plopped into a chair and sighed. “For now.”

They talked for a few minutes, Dobey essentially talking Hutch down, and then he went back to his desk. Hutch didn’t finish the paperwork that still waited for him.After about forty-five minutes of being peppered with questions about Starsky by everyone who stepped into the room, he decided to go chase down a couple people he needed to question, just some standard follow-ups for upcoming trials, nothing he couldn’t do on his own. 

Then he went home and folded all of Starsky’s newly clean laundry, took it back to Starsky’s and put it away, and ended up cleaning. Starsky kept his place pretty clean, if you didn’t count junk-food clutter, but Hutch still managed to kill four hours scrubbing and dusting and straightening. Maybe that would make up for the missing junk food, in Starsky’s eyes. 

Probably not. 

By the time he went back to the hospital, it was almost dinnertime. He bought a turkey on rye with mustard at a deli he liked and got half of it down. He felt overall better for having something in his stomach other than coffee, but it still sat like a lead balloon in his gut. 

No one gave him a hard time when he went by the nurse’s desk to Starsky’s room this time. He was glad. Maybe his blowup at the doctor had gotten around. 

He sat in the chair next to Starsky’s bed and told him about the people he’d followed up with, how pissed he was about having to do the paperwork alone, and of course the well-wishes people told him to give Starsky when he woke. He stared at the wall behind Starky’s bed most of the time because it was easier to pretend Starsky was awake and listening to him patiently. When he ran out of things to talk about, the silence was too much, so he decided to read Starsky’s book out loud.

It was a trashy novel, all big boobs and car chases and fights, but it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever read. After a chapter, he looked right at Starsky and said, “You ever hear a cop in your life talk like the ones in this book? The dialogue is . . it’s overwrought. Unnatural.”

He went back to reading, fixing the dialogue as he went and making it sound more like things actual cops might say to each other. He kept on that way for another chapter or two until the story got boring. He shoved the envelope corner into place and realized Starsky wouldn’t remember any of this. He’d have to find his original place again. 

He let his hips scoot forward in the chair so the back of his neck was against the headrest. “If you needed a vacation you should have just said so. This is unfair. I keep hoping somebody really does sideswipe your car so it can end up compacted into a shoebox.”

He glanced at Starsky, then closed his eyes. “Starsk. Come _on_.”

“Somebody sideswiped my car?”

Hutch shot up. “Starsky!” He put his hands on Starsky’s cheeks and peered into his barely open eyes, just to be sure he wasn’t imagining it. 

“Why would you compact—”

“Nurse!” Hutch turned and shouted over his shoulder, then realized that was stupid when the button to signal to the nurses was right there. 

“What you yellin’ ‘bout.” Starsky spoke like his mouth was dry, his lips sticking together. 

Hutch felt every inch of the smile he gave his partner. Still holding Starsky’s face in his hands, he gave him an exaggerated kiss on the forehead complete with a loud _mwah_ for emphasis. “God it’s good to see you awake, Starsk.”

“Not so nice to be awake.” Starsky grimaced. 

“We’ll get you something for the pain.” He mashed the call button, but they’d probably heard him shout since two nurses came running. One stopped at the door, her face breaking out in a smile. “I’ll get the doctor,” she said. 

It was the nurse who’d given him a hard time about seeing Starsky, he realized with a shock. The rhino. She was beautiful. 

The other nurse shone a penlight into Starsky’s eyes one at a time, then held up fingers and asked him how many, who was the president, what was his full name and birthdate, what was today’s date. 

He missed that last one. 

“That was yesterday, Starsk. You’ve been out since your surgery.”

Starsky’s lips curved. “How come?”

“That’s what the doctors have been trying to figure out.”

Dr. Edmunds arrived then, so Hutch moved aside and let him run through the same tests and questions the nurse had done with a few changes. Vitals were taken, fresh blood was drawn, and Starsky was given a dose of something into his IV to help with his pain. 

The doctor explained to both of them that Starsky’s thyroid count was a little low, not alarmingly so, but he should take medication daily to correct it. He repeated his theory about the anesthetic drug and a possible mild reaction that had kept him from waking properly. 

“Sometimes we never find a concrete reason for things like this. You’ll be here at least two more days, so we’ll run some more tests and do what we can to narrow down a cause. I’ve already put into your chart that the drugs used during your surgery should be avoided if you need general anesthetic in the future, to be on the safe side.”

Hutch stood back and listened to everything the doctor had to say, the list of tests they still wanted to run to do their due diligence. His incision looked like it should, his vitals were good, his fever was gone. 

They wanted to run some tests right then, so Hutch said, “I’ll be back as soon as they let me,” over the doctor’s shoulder and slipped out to call Captain Dobey and Huggy to give them the good news. 

Later, not long before visiting hours were over and Hutch would have to go home, Starsky was back in his room. Hutch pulled the chair close and sat. 

“Feel like a pincushion,” Starsky grumbled. 

“Serves you right, making us all worry that way.”

“Hey, what’d you say about my car? Somebody hit it?”

“No, I told you that yesterday to try to wake you up, and was just daydreaming about that car ending up in a junkyard, that’s all.”

“You like my car.”

“I like the mechanics of your car. Still pretty horrified by the paint job.”

Starsky chuckled. “Hey, did you bring my clothes?”

“Of course.” He gestured toward the slim closet where he’d shoved the bag.

“Gonna have a roommate tomorrow, I guess.”

“Sleeping Beauty’s awake, you’re just a regular boring old patient now.”

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Starsky reached for Hutch’s hand and squeezed it. “Not that it’s my fault or anything, don’t forget, but I’m sorry I worried ya.”

“Who was worried? I was just tired of doing all the paperwork.” Hutch didn’t let go, and Starsky didn’t pull his hand away, either. Soon, his eyes fluttered closed, but his breathing was familiar.

They’d both fallen asleep in each other’s presence enough that Hutch recognized the deeper breaths and the cadence, and the way every few inhales a soft little snore worked its way out. 

Hutch held onto his hand, just because he could. 

Starsky was still sleeping when it was time for him to leave, so he finally let go, and stood. 

“Hey, Starsk,” he said as he shook his shoulder gently. He should have felt bad about interrupting his sleep, but he couldn't leave without being sure he really was just sleeping.

“Hmm?” Starsky’s eyes cracked open. 

“Heading home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“‘Morrow, babe. Thanks.”

Hutch went from the hospital to the store and bought some groceries he took straight to Starsky’s place. Then he went home and managed to actually sleep more than an hour.

* * *

After Hutch drove Starsky home, Starsky held onto his arm as he got out of the car and on the walk inside, even though he was getting along pretty well and had been walking at the hospital for a couple of days. Hutch helped him onto the couch where he sat with a sigh. 

“Home sweet home, huh?” Starsky said as he sank into the cushion. “Why do they make hospitals so damn uncomfortable?”

“Motivation for people to get better and leave, I think.” Hutch draped a blanket from Starsky’s bed over him. It was freshly washed, because he figured all his bedsheets needed it after a night of sweating, and had laundered everything and made the bed up properly. 

“Mm,” Starsky said, pulling it to his nose. “Smells nice. You used your stuff, huh?”

“Yep. Water, tea, juice?”

“Water’s fine, unless I can have a belt this early in the day.”

“No belts of anything for you until you’ve healed.”

“Figures I’d get a stickler for a private nurse,” he complained, but his face didn’t match his tone. “I was hoping for somebody in one of those short skirts, you know those little French nurse uniforms.”

“Those are French maid uniforms, and you’re not going to see any nurse uniform close to that until Halloween. Sorry, you’re stuck with me. Though I could wear the outfit if you really wanted.” He handed Starsky the ice water, straw already bent at the perfect angle.

“You cleaned my apartment,” Starsky said after a sip. 

Hutch took the glass and put it on the table for him. “Just a little.”

“Thanks. Looks and smells nice.”

While Starsky was still on painkillers, relaxed on his own couch and looking a little sleepy, it might be the best time to mention the junk food. 

“I, uh, cleaned up a little bit where you can’t see, too. Threw out some spoiled food, took out the trash, that kind of thing. Hey, want me to read some more of that book? It was just getting to a sexy part when you dozed off last night.”

“What spoiled food? Nothing shoulda spoiled in just a handful of days.”

“Old food, not really spoiled.”

“What was old? I just went to the store.” Starsky straightened with a wince. “Hutch, what did you do?”

“I threw out all your junk food!”

“Tell me you’re joking.” Starsky’s nostrils flared and he looked almost like he might cry. 

“Chips and cookies and fatty crackers and hot dogs, Jesus, Starsk, with all that poison it’s a wonder they didn’t have to take out your whole stomach instead of just your appendix.”

“I paid good money for all that poison.”

“I know, so I bought you some groceries to replace them.”

“Oh my god.”

“Greens, lean meats, vegetables. Cheaper per ounce and so much healthier.” 

“Take me back to the hospital. I think I might have a stroke!” Starsky slumped, then slid so that he was lying down. Hutch helped lift his legs up so he’d be more comfortable. 

“Honestly, Starsk, most of it probably wasn’t any good anyway. A lot of it was open for who knows how long. You even had a package of Mallomars in the cabinet wide open, getting staler by the second.”

Starsky’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t.”

“They were open!”

“You threw away my Mallomars?” Starsky whispered it, as if scandalized or so horrified he couldn’t find voice to complain. “What kind of monster are you?”

“Why would you want to eat stale cookies?”

“The cookie part on the bottom gets soft and it makes ‘em even better. They don’t get stale, they get nicely aged.”

Starsky went on about the delights of air-exposed Mallomars, and Hutch ended up laughing. He was carrying on about a crappy cookie they way a sommelier might talk about how one needs to aerate a fine wine for the proper body and flavor. 

“It’s not funny, Hutch. I can’t believe you threw—”

“I’ll buy you a new package of Mallomars, okay? Two. I’ll even open them and throw them in the cabinet so they can properly “age” if you promise to shut up about them.”

Starsky brought his fingers to his lips and made a zipping motion. 

“You hungry now?”

“Not really. Especially not if you’re going to try to feed me something slimy and green.”

“Why would it be slimy?”

Starsky shrugged. “Seems right.”

They sat for a few minutes, Starsky crossed his arms beneath the blanket and looked at Hutch over the edge of it. “I really scared you, huh?”

“You really did.”

“You didn’t call me Sleeping Beauty at the station, didja?”

Hutch snorted. When Huggy had shown up yesterday, they’d given Starsky a hard time with that. “No, I didn’t call you that at the station.”

“Well you said it at the hospital enough for everywhere.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Nah, that’s Cinderella.”

Hutch started to say _what_? then got the joke. He smirked, but it devolved into a grin. 

Starsky cleared his throat. “All that Sleeping Beauty talk, I’m kinda surprised you didn’t try kissin’ me to wake me up.”

“So am I,” Hutch said when he should have only thought it. 

They stared at each other. 

Starsky shifted a little, like he might be about to sit up or say something, but his phone rang and Hutch got up to answer it. Dobey, checking on him. Then Huggy showed up with a basket of goodies “for the convalescing patient.” Mercifully, he didn’t refer to Starsky as Sleeping Beauty again. And by the time Huggy left, Starsky was so tired that the moment for joking, or having a serious conversation, seemed to have passed. 

Hutch stayed on the couch in case Starsky needed to get anywhere in a hurry at night, though Starsky said he didn’t need a babysitter. He didn’t protest too much, though. The next few days were spent with Hutch taking care of him—he’d taken a few long overdue vacation days—and cooking various things that were met with mixed reactions. 

He bought the stupid Mallomars, opened them and shoved them into the cabinet. 

They watched TV after dinner each night, then Hutch read the trashy novel out loud until Starsky got droopy enough to sleep. 

After a few days, Starsky’s pain eased enough that he didn’t need help doing anything, and Hutch no longer had an excuse to stay. They didn’t talk about fairy tales or kissing or anything again, and things went back to normal. 

Once Starsky was back to work, they were driving around looking for a guy named Petie Presser to ask him some questions about a robbery where one of the perps ended up dead. And Starsky made a quick stop at one of his favorite food stands. Hutch couldn’t remember the name of the thing he ordered, but it was like a meat explosion in a bun. As soon as Starsky put it on the seat to get in—he’d already taken a bite on his way back to the car—Hutch picked it up and helped himself. 

When Starsky was settled, Hutch gave it back and only then remembered the peppers. The first time Starsky had gotten one, Hutch had taken a bite and tasted that marinated banana pepper for a solid three days. He’d complained loudly that maybe they soaked them in straight vinegar with raw petroleum thrown in for kicks. They could market that marinade as “liquid evil” and no one would doubt them. If he’d remembered that, he wouldn’t have taken a bite. 

As he chewed, he realized the horrible twangy pepper wasn’t there. 

He looked in the bag that held a greasy sack of fries and fished out the receipt. Starsky had ordered it this way. 

“No banana peppers. I thought you loved those?”

“You hate ‘em,” Starsky said with a shrug and took a bite. He didn’t say anything else, because apparently that was reason enough to not order something on his own sandwich. Hutch watched him eat, watched the way his jaw moved as he took bites too big for polite chewing, and wondered what Starsky would think if, after he swallowed, Hutch leaned over and kissed him right then. 

“Hey,” Starsky said, and Hutch made himself stop staring. “Let’s try Mimi’s next. He’s probably not there, but maybe somebody’s seen him recently.”

“Sounds good.”

Mimi’s was a gay nightclub near the industrial district, a place that had never really been on their radar until a few years ago. Mimi French, the manager who wore high heels and lowest of low cut dresses despite a prominent Adam’s apple and a chest hairer than Starksy’s, got beaten up once and it involved someone they’d been looking for on suspicion of murder. So they got to know Mimi and some of the crew at her bar pretty well. 

Petie apparently liked some of the ladies there, according to a source they’d talked to an hour or so earlier. 

Anytime they walked into Mimi’s, if she or one of the bartenders they knew happened to be there, they got almost a royal welcome. This time, Hutch didn’t recognize the bartender, who was shirtless with a studded leather cap. He raised his eyebrows at Hutch and grinned. “Helloooo there,” he said, obviously flirting, his voice so deep Hutch swore he could feel it through the floor. 

Hutch chuckled. “Hello there, yourself.”

Starsky slapped Hutch’s chest with the back of his hand. “Hey,” he said with a frown.

“What?”

Starsky shook his head and scoffed, and before Hutch could say _what?_ again, Mimi came from the back in a silver sequined, low-cut number that hugged her hips and put her hairy chest on full display. 

“Starsky!” she cried when she saw them. “Hutch! Sit, sit, whatever you want’s on the house.” 

A couple guys and a couple ladies who looked a lot like Mimi drew closer, while others made plenty of room. They probably knew they were cops, and Hutch could hardly blame them for being distrustful. 

“Pure business today, Mimi, no pleasure. Though it’s always a pleasure seeing you.” Starsky took her offered hand and kissed the back of it with a wink. 

When they’d met Mimi, neither had said much about her appearance at first. Starsky seemed lost in thought for a while after she’d been loaded into an ambulance. Finally Hutch had to know what was going on inside his head. “So what do you think?”

“About which part?”

“All of it, especially the chest hair sticking out to here.” He’d held his hand a couple of inches from his chest.

“I dunno. What do you think?”

Hutch didn’t answer for a few minutes and chose his words carefully in an attempt to be as honest as he could be. “I don’t really understand, but I’m not sure I have to. She’s being who she wants to be and doesn’t care what anybody thinks. So I think . . . good for her.”

Starsky had struggled a little more than Hutch did. “Yeah. It doesn’t bother me or anything, good for her, but I really don’t understand why somebody would paint a target on their back like that. Why draw attention when so much of it’s going to be so bad?”

They were quiet until Hutch thought he at least understood that much. “If somebody told you you had to spend your life wearing skirts and high heels in public or you were going to get beaten up all the time, what would you do?”

“Tell ‘em to fuck off.”

“Right.”

After a few more quiet minutes, Starsky said, “It really is the same, isn’t it?”

“Far as I can tell, yeah.”

And that had been that. The more they talked to Mimi and came to like her, the less anybody who didn’t immediately meet their expectations threw them. And now, as evidenced by the way Starsky was schmoozing her, he looked like he could come here for dinner and drinks every night and feel perfectly at home. 

“I haven’t seen you two in what feels like such a long time.” She put her hand over Hutch’s on the bar. “How dare you keep those dimples and blue eyes to yourselves.”

She rubbed the top of Hutch’s hand, and he found himself grinning back at her. _Two can schmooze, Starsk._

“What is with all this flirting, right in front of me?” Starsky said to him, then he playfully slapped Mimi’s hand. “How many times I gotta tell ya, Memes, the big beautiful blond is mine.”

She put her hand over her mouth. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Starsky asked her about Petie, they had a long conversation, but Hutch only caught a word here or there. He was reeling from the way Starsky’s words affected him. The slap to his chest earlier, what’s with all this flirting, right in front of me? _The big beautiful blond is mine._

Big beautiful blond, big beautiful blue eyes, tall, blonde and beautiful. Starsky said things like that to him and about him a lot. They both said shit like that to each other. Joking, sure, but Hutch’s heartbeat had started to race this time in a way it usually didn’t. He always liked to hear it, secretly, but today hearing it blossomed a hope inside his chest he usually wouldn’t allow. 

He thought about the last several weeks. Starsky hanging onto his arm, touching him casually as Hutch cooked for him or gave him a blanket, the comment about kissing him to wake him up, the long looks where he said nothing and only smiled until Hutch had to look away. 

Was it wishful thinking, or had Starsky been flirting with him? 

Between what he said to Mimi and Starsky’s sandwich order, and the gnawing sort of yearning he’d felt since Starsky was in the hospital, Hutch could barely make conversation the rest of the day. 

* * *

Before their shift was over, Hutch offered to make them dinner at Starsky’s place. He’d bring the ingredients. Starsky agreed after Hutch swore to god and a couple other deities he wouldn’t make anything slimy and green. 

He planned to make simple fajitas, and would even saute some sliced banana peppers for Starsky, though he had no idea what hellish sauce to marinate them in to make them taste similar to the ones on the sandwiches Starsky liked so well. Regular fajita seasoning would have to do.

When Hutch got there, he joked that he’d forgotten his hot nurse’s uniform at home, but Starsky didn’t laugh. Just looked at him with a tiny, indecipherable grin on his face. 

“Got a dress like Mimi French’s in your trunk? That’d work in a pinch.”

“At the cleaner’s. Rotten timing.” He unloaded the groceries onto the counter, which was a great excuse to stop looking at Starsky and trying to figure out if the look on his face meant anything like Hutch wanted it to. 

“Gimme a job,” Starsky said, appearing at his elbow. “I can slice or chop or mash or whatever the hell you need doin’, I guess.”

Hutch pushed a cutting board and a knife in front of Starsky and plonked the freshly washed bell and banana peppers on top. “Slice. You know how to do it without getting seeds everywhere?” he asked, widening his eyes. 

Starsky tilted his head. “I think I can figure it out, Julia Child.”

He did a reasonably good job for somebody who probably hadn’t sliced that many peppers in his life while Hutch used a plate to slice a red onion. 

“Know what sounds good that I haven’t had in a while?” Starsky started on the second pepper.

“I’m scared to ask.”

“Deep-fried Twinkie. The best fair food hands-down.”

Hutch had no answer for that. Maybe if he ignored the whole conversation it would change the subject. He aggressively sliced his onion and put a little more oil in the skillet he already had heating.

Starsky opened an upper cabinet and pulled out the open package of Mallomars. “I’ll bet these are just about right now.”

Hutch waved his knife. “I swear to god, Starsk, I will stab you where you stand.”

Starsky laughed and pulled one out of the package. “Taste it and see. The cookie part's all nice and soft—”

“Starsky! You just had to have part of your guts removed—”

“Not exactly true. Besides, I told you I asked the doctor about this. Your diet, big boy, is at least as likely if not more to contribute to a case of appendicitis than mine.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“ _Fruit_ seeds, _plants_ you don’t chew well enough, undigested bits of _nuts._ Those things can and will sometimes mess up an appendix. Sound familiar?”

“I’m not the one who had to have surgery I couldn’t wake up from.” It came out angrier than he’d meant, but he wasn’t sorry about it. He threw the onions along with the peppers Starsky had sliced into the pan. 

“Hey,” Starsky said softly. “Look at me.”

Hutch reluctantly did. 

“I woke up. I’m fine.”

“You could’ve—”

“I _didn’t_.”

“You’ve got to take better care of yourself, Starsk. Can’t you at least try to do that? For me?” Hutch hated how desperate he sounded, but damn it, he wasn’t sure he could hold it in anymore.

Starsky took Hutch’s arms and turned him to fully face him. “I am. Did you know that I’ve had vegetables every day since I’ve been back on my feet and feedin’ myself? Not deep-fried, either, but the way you were makin’ ‘em. _Steamed_.” He said the word like it tasted bad in his mouth. “That’s because of you. Really, that’s _for_ you. Because I think what would Hutch want me to eat, and nine times outta ten . . . okay, _six_ times maybe, I pick what you would’ve picked.”

Hutch had noticed that their stops at food stands had been less frequent, and Starsky didn’t eat junk food while sitting at his desk as much anymore. Hutch thought maybe it was because he wasn’t feeling as back to normal as he let on and hadn’t even considered that Starsky might be eating better by choice. 

“I thought maybe you’d lost some of your appetite, like you weren’t feeling good but hiding it.”

“Nope. Hungry like normal, just eating your kinda food sometimes. And it’s not just so I don’t have to hear you bitchin’, either.” Starsky rubbed Hutch’s arms up and down like he was trying to warm them. “Though that’s part of it,” he added with a crooked grin. 

“ _Starsk-_ -”

“Look, I figure takin’ care of me . . . is takin’ care of you, too. I know how worried you were, and I don’t like seein’ that look on your face. I’ve seen it enough for five lifetimes.”

Hutch knew the feeling. Watching Starsky suffer when he could do little but stand by while Hutch was hurt or ill or broken, nothing had been worse than that. “Me, too,” he said, knowing Starsky would understand what he meant. He pulled Starsky into a tight hug. 

“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” Hutch said. 

“Be stuck with a lot of fuckin’ paperwork, I guess.” 

“I’m being serious.”

“I know.”

They held on for a long time. When Starsky leaned back, he grinned and rubbed his thumb against Hutch’s forehead, between his eyes. “I don’t want you to blame me for putting wrinkles on your pretty face, right there.” Starsky’s hand lingered, and then came to rest against Hutch’s cheek. 

“Then stop doing stupid things like going into comas.”

Starsky leaned toward him, and Hutch licked his lips. Was this what he thought it was?

“I’ll do my best.” Starsky’s eyes cut toward the stove and he let go. “Hey, that’s gonna burn.”

Hutch lifted the skillet off the flame, then pushed the veggies around with the spatula to unstick them, wishing he hadn’t put them on yet so he wouldn’t have to wonder whether Starsky would have kept leaning forward if he hadn’t been interrupted. 

Starsky stayed at his elbow while Hutch made the sauce and warmed the tortillas, mostly talking about which vegetables he hated the least. Fortunately all the ones in the fajitas were in that group. 

He came back around to the Mallomars. “Even if you eat healthy, Hutch, it’s okay to have something sweet now and then.”

“Apples and oranges are sweet,” he pointed out. 

“Not the same. Have you tasted a Mallomar?”

“I’ve had stuff like that before.”

“But not specifically one of these? You have to try it! Just a tiny bite. For dessert, maybe?”

Hutch agreed, albeit huffily. “Fine, but I’ll save a bite or two of dinner in case I need to get the taste out of my mouth.”

Starsky opened them both a beer and put plates on the table. The food was good, and Starsky said he might try making them himself one day soon because he said Hutch made it look so easy. “Near burning aside,” he added with a wink. 

“To be fair, I was distracted with you right in my face.”

Starsky only smiled in reply. They talked about their cases, a little about sports—mostly Starsky leading the conversation about that—and when they plopped on the couch with their beers and Starsky with a Mallomar in hand, Starsky turned sideways to face him. 

“Dessert, monsieur.”

“Oh god, I forgot to save some fajita.”

“Beer’ll work if you really hate it. We’ll split it.” He managed to tear the thing kind of in half.

Hutch frowned at the two white, gloopy, chocolate-covered lumps. “Fine,” he said with a sigh. He went to take it, but Starsky pushed it into his mouth with a pleased grin. “You don’t even have to get your hands sticky. That service or what?” 

Starsky ate his own, then used his teeth to scrape marshmallow and chocolate off the pad of his thumb before licking his fingers and sighing in satisfaction. “I could eat a whole package of those.”

Hutch, still chewing, eyed him. 

“Could, but won’t. Lighten up. So what do you think?”

Hutch finally got it swallowed. “Tastes like diabetes.”

Starsky’s expression didn’t change. He stared, waiting. 

“Okay, it’s fine. Very sweet, too sweet, and kind of weird and fake tasting, but . . . fine.”

“Told ya you’d like it.” He shoved Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch rolled his eyes and took several swallows of his beer. It tasted terrible after all that sugar, but it did help cut it. He put his bottle on the coffee table next to Starsky’s. 

Starsky leaned his elbow on the back of the couch and rested his head against his hand. “So is that all that’s been eatin’ you lately? Worry about what _I’m_ eatin’?”

Hutch didn’t like how planned that question sounded, like Starsky had been going to bring it up even before the conversation went that way while they were cooking. “Yeah, I think your little hospital stay got to me more than I thought it did, that’s all.”

“I’m good, Hutch. It was just one of those things.”

“Yeah.”

He put his hand on Hutch’s arm. “Hey.”

“I know, Starsk. It’s just . . .”

Starsky dipped his head to get a better line of sight straight into Hutch’s eyes. Starsky’s hand found the back of his neck. “Big lug. You gotta stop worryin’ so much.”

Hutch clasped the back of Starsky’s neck, and they pressed their foreheads together. Hutch’s voice came out in a rasp. “I’ll stop worrying as soon as you stop looking up at me from hospital beds.”

“You try to do the same.”

Hutch laughed. “Yeah. We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

“Aren’t we?” Starsky’s hand slid down to rest on Hutch’s shoulder and stayed there. He kneaded gently. “Gotta admit a little disappointment about how it all played out, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“How come you _didn’t_ try kissin’ me to wake me up?”

Hutch leaned back, and there was that little smile again. This time, he felt pretty sure Starsky was joking, but maybe not _really_ joking. Plausible deniability.

“If I’d thought it might work, I would have.”

“You’da laid one right on me, huh? In front of god and the nurses and everybody?”

“Yes.”

“Should have. Mighta worked.”

Starsky’s little smile was the kind that showed up a lot in moments like this when Hutch started to think maybe he wasn’t imagining Starsky’s intent, and shortly after it appeared one of them would make a joke or change the subject. But Hutch didn’t want to joke about it. Pretending he didn’t mean exactly what he was saying wouldn’t sit right with him, not now. 

“Then I’m sorry as hell I didn’t give it a shot.”

Starsky tilted his head, his gaze flicking from Hutch’s eyes to his lips. “So am I.”

Hutch swallowed hard. It had always been safer to assume moments like this one were just wishful thinking. Now, though, he wasn’t imagining it. _Couldn’t_ be. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hutch took a deep breath. “Feeling sleepy?”

“A little. But I think you could probably wake me up if you tried.” 

Hutch’s breath caught. No way to misinterpret that. He was so stunned to have what he wanted right there in front of him, he must have hesitated too long. 

“Jesus, Hutch, I’ve been trying to get you to kiss me for weeks. Do I have go back into another coma or—”

Hutch pulled him forward. 

Starsky kissed the way he hugged, the way he did everything, putting his whole body into it. He cupped Hutch’s face between his hands and pressed himself against Hutch. His lips dragged over Hutch’s, then his tongue slipped between them, and Hutch leaned in for more. 

He wondered if he’d missed signs from Starsky for years, or if Starsky had only recently decided he wanted this, but at that moment he didn’t bother to ask. Those were conversations for later. Nothing mattered then but Starsky’s mouth and the way he was pushing Hutch into the couch, whole and warm and feeling like every good thing Hutch could ever want or dream of all wrapped into one. 

Still holding Hutch’s face in his hands, Starsky broke the kiss and panted against his lips. “Guess what?”

“What?” Hutch whispered, stroking the backs of his fingers down Starsky’s neck. He licked his lips and watched Starsky do the same. 

“It works. I’ve never been this awake in my life.” 

Hutch drank in the sight of Starsky with flushed cheeks and hooded eyes, leaning over him open-mouthed. Knowing all of that was because of him, _for_ him, was almost more than he could let himself believe. But this was true. This was _real_. “Then I guess you won’t mind if I keep you up all night?” 

When Starsky gave him that easy lopsided smile he loved so much, Hutch slid his fingers into Starsky’s hair and kissed him again. 


End file.
